Courting Chaos
by Ell Roche
Summary: Pureblood customs and courting only come with one assurance: they aren't orderly. A oneshot collection.
1. It Was Good to be Queen

**Title: **It Was Good to be Queen

**Pairing:** Thomas Marvolo Riddle Jr./Hamalthea Potter

* * *

Lady Hamalthea Slytherin stood in the crowd of first year students—her robes noticeably better than the rest. Heiress Blaise Zabini stood to her right and just behind her, assuming the flanking position that had long been her place. Blaise was her best friend, and Hamalthea wouldn't allow anything to happen to her. In fact, they had essentially been raised as sisters.

Hamalthea remembered, of course, a time when she had been forced to live with _Muggles_. She could recall in perfect detail the horse-faced woman, her birth mother's sister, who ordered her around like a slave. She could picture the walrus man who dared call himself her uncle, who wasn't above slapping her when her powerful magic exerted itself.

Mostly, though, Hamalthea remembered the voice that whispered in her head. It was a man's voice; it was deep and dark, but it didn't frighten her. He whispered words to her, words to get revenge against the _Muggle_ filth. He offered her an escape, a chance to get away and be raised properly in the wizarding world—where her magic would be cherished, not derided. He offered a chance for clothes that fit, enough food to eat, and knowledge.

Even as a child, Hamalthea hadn't been stupid. She knew there would be a price to pay for such kindness. All Marvolo had wanted was a surefire guarantee that she would never fight against him, that a prophecy which foretold their destruction would never come true.

Marvolo didn't want to die. Neither did Hamalthea. She agreed.

At six years of age, she became a child bride. She became the Lady Slytherin. Marvolo told her how to get to Zabini Manor, and Lady Zabini had taken her in and raised her in secret.

Hamalthea knew her lord didn't have a body right now. She also knew of all he had been accused; he had told her the truth himself. Marvolo had murdered her parents. Perhaps a normal child would've been horrified to learn the truth. Hamalthea wasn't. Her parents hadn't been able to protect her. Her godparents were unknowns. Her mother's relatives had never protected her.

Of all the things in the world she doubted, Marvolo wasn't one of them. She knew that he (and his many servants) would never, ever let anything happen to her. Because she loved Marvolo, and he was a greedy, greedy lord when it came to her love. He wanted it all for himself, and she couldn't deny him.

"Potter, Hamalthea," Professor McGonagall called out.

The name tugged at her chest for only a moment. She hadn't been a Potter in five years now. Her magic was all tied up in the Slytherin name, and she wouldn't change it for anything.

When Hamalthea didn't step forward, grateful for the taller boy blocking her from sight, McGonagall's shoulders slumped. She continued reading the names on the list, and the crowd around Hamalthea shrunk.

Soon, Marvolo would get his revenge. And she . . . she had the honor of delivering it. A long, long time ago, the Headmaster had repeatedly sent Marvolo into danger—back to abusive Muggles in a horrid orphanage. A long, long time ago, the Headmaster had ruined Marvolo's chances of staying in the one place that felt like home: Hogwarts. And now, tonight, the Headmaster would see all of his plans, hopes, and dreams for the future burn to ashes in his grasp.

Just as he had once destroyed her lord's wishes, hopes, and dreams.

Hamalthea knew when McGonagall reached her name, because she turned white as a ghost. She swayed as if she would faint, but, disappointingly, didn't. "S-S—" She swallowed, and then tears started to fall down her face. "S-S-S—" It took her almost a full minute, chatter rising in volume as she stuttered. Then, voice as pained as if she were being Cruciated, McGonagall said, "Slytherin, Hamalthea."

Smirking, Hamalthea took one step forward. She was peripherally aware of the entire Slytherin House shooting to its feet, and Professor Snape rising and pressing a shaking hand against the high table. However, the majority of her attention was centered on the Headmaster. His blue eyes, which had been twinkling infuriatingly since she entered the Great Hall, were cold, hard, tired, and heading toward lifeless.

She reached forward and stroked the hat. It shouted "Slytherin!" a hundred times more loudly than it had for Heir Draco Malfoy.

"Hamalthea Slytherin?" Dumbledore asked, one hand pressed over his heart.

Oh, but surely her next words would treble the pain he felt at losing his most beloved asset to his greatest threat. "My lord and husband sends his regards."

As Dumbledore collapsed, she turned her back and purred, "Severus."

He was beside her in an instant, as if he had Apparated. Severus knelt before her, eyes fixed on the floor. "What can I do for you, Lady Slytherin?"

Hamalthea leaned forward and whispered, "We owe you, dear Severus. Think of what you desire most, ask it of us, and we will see that you receive it." Severus had set it all in motion; because of him, Marvolo wasn't drowning in loneliness or insanity any longer. "We are feeling very generous towards you, dear Severus. So even if what you want doesn't want to be yours, we'll change its mind for you."

That said, she patted his cheek and went to sit at the head of the Slytherin table. Some days—every day, to be honest—it was good to be queen.


	2. A Petition for Her Second Right

**Title:** A Petition for Her Second Right

**Pairing:** Marcus Flint/Halie Potter

* * *

Halie Potter left the bathroom, her hair wrapped in a towel, and padded down to the common room in her nightgown. It was past midnight, and the bedroom doors locked from the inside and outside then—to keep intruders from getting in, and rebellious students from sneaking out. Everyone would be safely in bed now, which would allow her to dry her hair by the fire.

She knew grooming charms, of course. If Halie wanted, she could dry it and have it braided in less than thirty seconds. However, her godfather had raised her better than that. Sirius had taught her the Ancient Ways, because he couldn't bear the thought of losing her, as he had lost her parents.

So, ever since Halie could remember, her hair would be brushed dry before the fireplace every night. It was an ancient ritual, which helped a witch to control her magic and also helped it grow. There was a reason, after all, that she was magically stronger than the seventh years.

Sirius's motto was: There's no harm in a little forbidden magic if it will keep you alive for me.

That's what he had said before making her a hairbrush with silver and blood magic. Halie hadn't used any other since he had given it to her, and she never would. She lifted it and began brushing her hair methodically, mind wandering as she did so. She would pause occasionally to spread out the strands, and stroke her fingers through it lovingly. It had never been cut, and never would. Such was blasphemy; there was a reason why Magical Creature hair and feathers were the cores of wands.

Her hair pooled on the carpet before the rug. When she was standing, it fell to her ankles. Since it was filled with magic, though, it never weighed down her neck or caused her injuries. She didn't even get headaches after wearing it up all day.

Halie pulled the loose hair out of the bristles of her brush and fed it to the fire, which flared white before turning back to its red and golds. "A gift of love to Mother Magic," she whispered, repeating Sirius's words. After all the magic she had been given, it was only proper to give some in return.

She knew a lot of the half-bloods and Muggle-borns didn't understand why pureblood ladies always wore their hair up, and it was too dangerous to speak of. If everyone knew magic was stored in hair, if the correct rituals were performed, what would stop petty, jealous girls from lopping off a rival's hair to make her weaker? There was a reason that cutting, accidentally or not, and damaging a pureblood witch's hair, accidentally or not, was punishable by an Azkaban sentence.

Halie, of course, didn't have to worry about that. Sirius had taught her the Ancient Ways, not the Dark Ways—which were popular now. Not even Gryffindor's sword or Slytherin's lancet had the power to cut her hair.

She caught sight of a hand reaching for her hair at the edge of her peripheral vision. Halie swung her hairbrush over and smacked the callused, thick, tough-looking fingers. "My godfather will kill you," she hissed. How in the world had someone snuck into the common room? Halie could only bypass the wards because she was a Parselmouth.

"It would be worth it," a harsh, male voice grunted.

Halie felt sick to her stomach as she tried to gather all of her hair close to her body. A true lady's hair should only ever be touched by four people in her entire life: herself, of course, the man who raised her—be it a father, grandfather, uncle, godfather, etc.—her lord, and her eldest son. They alone had the right to help her magic grow, and to receive the peace Mother Magic granted those who helped protect her beloved daughters.

"P-please," she begged. "Don't."

Halie's eyelashes clumped with tears as she stared up at Heir Marcus Flint. He was massive—there was no other word for it—thick, broad, and muscular in the way very few wizards were. He had long since reached his majority, as the magic flashing through his dark eyes proved. He wasn't attractive. However, his presence was insanely powerful. The fact that her hair-brushing ritual had managed to eclipse his presence in the room was both exhilarating and terrifying.

This was Marcus Flint's third time as a seventh year, which made no sense to her. He wasn't an idiot; Snape had assigned him as the tutor for the fifth year students this year, and never complained when Flint skipped all of his classes and didn't show up for detentions.

Marcus Flint had unnerved Halie since she was a first year, even though he had never been unkind to her, because she knew that he could break her in half without even using his magic.

"Why?" Heir Flint demanded, voice rough.

"You've no right," Halie snapped, lips quivering. He wouldn't really touch it, would he? Surely not. But what if he did . . . ? Why had she left her wand in her bedroom? _Because it's always been safe out here before_, she thought.

"Lord Potter's First Right passed to Lord Black upon his death. I know that," Marcus said. His hand hovered above her loose, black hair, but he didn't touch it. "I'm interested in the Second Right," he stated, dark eyes burning with magic. "Who will it be, then? Malfoy, the whelp who whines to his daddy about everything? Longbottom, whose skill at magic is laughable at best? A Weasley, who won't even know what he's been gifted with?" Marcus sneered derisively. "Nott, who's weaker than you physically? Snape, who could happily pretend you're your mother?"

Halie flinched at the last one, because she knew it wasn't far from the truth. The thought of any of those boys possessing Second Right of her hair was unconscionable. "I-I haven't decided." Honestly, she hadn't even given it much thought. Halie knew some of the girls her age were already engaged, or betrothed—a few had even bonded—but none of the males of her acquaintance tempted her in the least. The descriptions Marcus had used for those few could be applied to almost all the other pureblood males she knew.

Marcus knelt before her and offered her a serious smile; it looked like a grimace. "Lady Halie Potter, I petition for your Second Right."

She leaned backward a few inches in shock. Was he serious? Halie had received many courtship, betrothal, and bonding offers this past summer, but they all came in scrolls to her godfather. She had never received one personally, face-to-face. She wasn't sure how to react. "What?"

He scowled. "I'm my own man; my father doesn't make my decisions for me. I'm strong enough both physically and magically to protect you. I've been raised in the Ancient Ways of the Olde Magick, Lady Halie." Marcus stroked her cheek before she could even think to dodge, his rough thumb brushing beneath her right eye. "And I would never pretend you're anyone else."

"I—" Halie didn't know how to respond. Everything he had spoken was the truth; he had never wasted his time on lies. He could, without a doubt, do all that he had just said.

A dull flush, barely visible, covered his cheeks. "I haven't been hanging out at Hogwarts for two extra years because I have nothing else to do. By all rights, I should be running our lands now, while Father deals with the politics."

If that wasn't a Slytherin declaration of love, then she wasn't a Potter.

Halie stared at him, thoughts racing through her head. She didn't love him, but he possessed many admirable qualities. He was patient with children, he was intelligent, he was honorable, family was important to him, and he was willing to humiliate himself for just a _chance_ at winning her heart. Her father had possessed those same qualities, and her parents had been blissfully happy, despite the war. If her mother could learn to love her father, then Halie could surely learn to love Marcus, whose faithful feelings had been manifested through actions.

And so, decision made, Halie handed him her hairbrush . . . and her future.


End file.
